She was even more astonished to find it was an offer of marriage, very handsome in its terms, exceedingly generous in the amount he would settle upon her; there would be a house in town and an estate in the country, pin-money, jewels, carriages, and travel. Mr. Meriwether was a widower, but there were no step-children to resent her introduction into their home. He promised her security, loyalty, and affection, and added the highest praise of her temperament, her beauty, and her well-informed mind. He attested that his health was excellent, and his yearly income exceeded even her idle speculations. His language was that of a man of education, feeling, and sense. No objection could be raised to the letter in point of style, and he wound up the whole by asking to be permitted to attempt to create an attachment on her part.
Here was a sincerity, a frankness, a worth not to be held lightly. Julia was genuinely gratified and honoured by Mr. Meriwether’s application, as she respected and esteemed him. But how to reply?
Julia spent an hour alone in her garden, sitting and standing, pacing and pausing, pondering what she should do. She had no dislike for Mr. Meriwether. And she thought herself peculiarly well-suited to become the mistress of an elegant town home in London, with carriages, servants, and horses. With his wealth and her breeding, they would establish a new family, respectable, genteel, liberal, and prosperous. She saw herself as the hostess at an elegant table, surrounded by friends, she imagined herself shopping for new clothes and jewels with little to restrain her, she thought of welcoming her sister Maria from her seclusion in Norfolk, and of being, for once, the sister who came first in consequence and fortune; she thought of the charities she could sponsor and the kindnesses she would bestow upon the deserving poor, she pictured a nursery full of lovable children—and then she thought of a well-appointed bedchamber, and she quailed.
Mr. Meriwether was by no means repulsive in appearance. He was affable, but not handsome, well-built, with a trim and active figure. A woman calling herself Mrs. Meriwether could repose every confidence in his understanding and his placid temper.
But—Julia knew what it was to feel passion. When she was younger, she had been almost seduced by the skilful, furtive embraces of Henry Crawford, which at the time had left her distracted, weak, powerless to resist and yearning for more. Even now, the thought of how his hands had roamed freely over her, how his lips left a trail of kisses that blazed like fire, raised uncomfortable and irresistible sensations within her.
But that remembrance was nothing to the memory of the day she had kissed William Price, and had pledged herself to him, and felt his strong arms about her, and seen the devotion shining in his eyes. How was this to be thrown away and forgotten, and how was she to give her hand without her heart?
Many young ladies, Julia knew, had renounced a first love, even a partiality toward one gentleman or another, and married for sensible considerations, rather than romantic ones. They had given themselves to men chosen by their families. And in some cases, the marriages prospered well. At least, husband and wife became good friends. She thought of Lord and Lady Delingpole—a true partnership, he a leading man in government and she, an avid political hostess. And in fact, she privately acknowledged, it could be contended that her own father, captivated by the beauty and complacent manners of her mother, had not chosen so wisely for himself as Lord Delingpole’s parents had chosen for their son.
Duty and expediency all pointed in one direction, but alas! her inclinations pointed in another.
Restless and half-unawares of where she walked, Julia crossed the fields which separated their home from the village. She became aware of the rhythmic pounding of hammer upon anvil. The blacksmith’s shop, as yet partly screened by a row of newly-planted trees, was so close to the parsonage that the noise from that establishment frequently reached their ears.
If their blacksmith had the power to marry persons using his anvil for an altar, as was done in Gretna Green, she could accept the rash offer of Viscount Lynnon, and marry the heir to the Delingpole Earldom! A title and a massive estate in Wales might well lessen the pain of relinquishing her lieutenant. But nothing could have justified an acceptance of Viscount Lynnon’s proposal—there was no mutual esteem to speak of, and her motives would have been entirely mercenary.
Her attention returned to the letter in her hand, and she re-read it carefully. She was struck, quite forcibly struck, by the propriety of Mr. Meriwether’s language, which testified to a man who had risen far above his humble origins through intelligence and application. It was a most unexceptional offer.
Julia retraced her path homeward and regained her garden. The sun was setting, and Edmund had lit some candles in his study. She saw him through the window, sitting at his desk, nodding over a book, but—and the picture struck at her heart—alone, all alone, and condemned to remain so.
Julia recalled the visit from her cousin Fanny, earlier in the year, which had illustrated to her the beauty and virtues of an unselfish character. She had then privately resolved to think of others more, and less of herself. Was this not a case in point? Was she being selfish? Not only foolish, but selfish—clinging to a forlorn hope?
Mrs. Peckover appeared at the top of the path. “Miss Julia, the damps of the evening are rising. I’m sure your brother would want you to come inside now.”
Julia swiftly assented, and without saying a word, hurried in and went upstairs to her own room.
Mr. Meriwether must be answered. It would be uncivil to keep him waiting for her reply—she owed him that much, at
